by Valentina Gnup
For those who lost their lives in the Nepal flood of August, 2026.
The faithful believe Mount Kailash
is the center of the world—
the most sacred peak, the ultimate abode of Lord Shiva.
—Hindol Sengupta, religious historian
Over rocky ground and icy rivers, believers walk
to honor whichever God they trust to answer their prayers.
We still don’t know how many of the faithful lost
their lives in flash floods on their final pilgrimage.
Some called them foolish, though don’t we all hope
for glimpses of wonder, a spare house key to heaven?
Early this morning, I lay in bed listening to the rain
ticking in the drainpipe and wondering if I’ll ever
kiss anyone again. No need to tell me, my spinster
sorrow has no place in this elegy for the drowned.
Sengupta said, Gods walk among men in these mountains,
but the pilgrims circling Mount Kailash are forbidden
to climb its sacred slopes. Perhaps God craves privacy,
or maybe he’s as hungry for kisses as I am.
Although these gray clouds look more like November,
it’s still August, the world on fire. I won’t lament
our frightening climate, I won’t condemn pretend kings.
I’ll ask you to consider the grass—it’s already greener
than it was last night. If I ever visit the holy mountain,
I'll pray, God, let the world recover quickly as grass.
the most sacred peak, the ultimate abode of Lord Shiva.
—Hindol Sengupta, religious historian
Over rocky ground and icy rivers, believers walk
to honor whichever God they trust to answer their prayers.
We still don’t know how many of the faithful lost
their lives in flash floods on their final pilgrimage.
Some called them foolish, though don’t we all hope
for glimpses of wonder, a spare house key to heaven?
Early this morning, I lay in bed listening to the rain
ticking in the drainpipe and wondering if I’ll ever
kiss anyone again. No need to tell me, my spinster
sorrow has no place in this elegy for the drowned.
Sengupta said, Gods walk among men in these mountains,
but the pilgrims circling Mount Kailash are forbidden
to climb its sacred slopes. Perhaps God craves privacy,
or maybe he’s as hungry for kisses as I am.
Although these gray clouds look more like November,
it’s still August, the world on fire. I won’t lament
our frightening climate, I won’t condemn pretend kings.
I’ll ask you to consider the grass—it’s already greener
than it was last night. If I ever visit the holy mountain,
I'll pray, God, let the world recover quickly as grass.
Valentina Gnup's poetry collection Ruined Music was published by Grayson Books in 2024. She has won the Tucson Festival of Books Literary Award for Poetry, the Lascaux Prize in Poetry, the Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge, the Rattle Reader’s Choice Award, and the Barbara Mandigo Kelly Peace Poetry Award from the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation. Her poems have appeared in many literary journals including Palette Poetry, December, Brooklyn Review, Nimrod, and The New Guard. She has chapbooks published by Mille Grazie Press and the North Carolina Writers' Network. She lives in Mill Valley, CA.
